FIGSBy James EatonRobin Anderson is a talented still life artist from Southern California. Her past subjects have primarily been flowers – often on a grand style. “Figs” is a significant departure from Robin’s previous work. The subject challenges more than pleases the patron; but that said, “Figs” pleases me greatly. Almost everything about this painting is a serious departure from Robin’s past work including subject, condition of the subject, color, technique, atmosphere, space, and the intangible sense of life as raw, physical, and seductively beautiful. Robin has done with her art what I would like to do with my life, if I were not so cowardly and proud; I believe that is the essence of her job as an artist. Robin has undergone an enormous transformation and then showed it to us, without hesitation, with canvas and paint.

Robin painted this image from life, and that alone explains a raw intensity to the canvas I have rarely seen in her work. This painting is more accessible to the male sensibility. It bleeds like an open wound earned in battle and worn like an emblem of courage. If my image makes you uneasy, you have never played a dangerous, physical sport, or suffered an injury for a noble purpose. Robin’s “Figs” capture both the immediacy and courage of living with natural forces. Like “Figure With Meat” by English Painter Francis Bacon, Robin’s figs deliver the raw, intensity of nature minus Bacon’s surreal neurotic twists.

Figs are possessed of an ancient symbolism, endowing them with sacred status. They are soft, sweet, often dark and brooding, yet when ripe, their flesh opens easily and bleeds truth. Like the sacred heart of a Madonna in a dark, musty Catholic Church, ripe figs perform their Mass in Latin. Even if we don’t understand the ancient language, we love the sacred rite as it pours over our troubled souls with the sweet bouquet of abundant redemption. Robin’s figs bring this sense of the Mass, of life redeemed by blood sacrifice, as I sit alone on the back pew. Toward the back of the table, Robin’s dark, uncut figs are beautiful in their simplicity, color, and anticipation, but are then entirely upstaged by the red, ripe figs already executed and oozing life on the ancient wood altar.

Robin’s new technique excites me on a number of levels. The background space reflects the colors of the subjects, but with the ambiguity of a primal dimension where the sacred and the profane separate in the dark. The rough hue of the wood table does not reflect the light of the image – as in some of Robin’s earlier paintings. These figs are not concerned about reflected light; they are brooding, immediate, and possess a light of their own. The wood table is rough and scarred from previous sacred executions. This would be a terrifying image, the soul resting on the altar of its own destruction, but the figs willingly give up their flesh and blood. It is their purpose. It is why they exist. It is also why I like the subject matter of this painting.

After all the analysis of symbol and subject, Robin Anderson’s “Figs” is simply a very good painting. While open to analysis, it passes the ultimate test and qualifies as an accomplished, enjoyable work of art. I would display this painting in my home with an arrangement of artifacts, possibly an antique crucifix or collection of eclectic but deeply evocative paintings and drawings. With “Figs”, Robin crossed over to a new style and tapped into a new thought stream. She showed us something of courage and sacrifice, and she showed us something of herself. She can wear this canvas like an emblem of sacred courage. I look forward to her next painting. – Jim Eaton

POMEGRANATE JAMBy James EatonThe strong, tart odor of pomegranate jam filled the kitchen, marking a solitary moment for a solitary man, alone in the dark and sitting at the end of a long wood table. This was his second meal, just hours after a formal family dinner of lamb, eggplant, and dry red wine. It had been a large gathering and included aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins, the parish priest and several elderly friends. But now, it was quiet. The kitchen was scrubbed and clean. The house was still, but tonight, everyone was alone.

Abel Danielian was tired of conversation and accommodating others. His mood was restive. He preferred to sit at the edge of table, outside the harsh pool of ceiling light focused on the open jar. Sitting alone, where darkness illuminates memory and moments mingle in the pensive repose of quiet thought, he addressed a plate of cold lamb and the tart pomegranate jam combining to bring a sad peace. He was no longer a grandchild visiting the old home on a holiday. On the day of his grandmother’s funeral, this was a moment of maturity.

Since moving away, he didn’t eat lamb often and never tasted the pomegranate jam now accenting the strangeness of being once again enshrouded by ancient familiar surroundings. A gathering of extended family, grown to adulthood, in their grandmother’s home, was pungent, tart, and not an entirely sweet event. Egos were on display and old fires reignited. The jar containing the jam reflected the moment like a crystal of indeterminate value refracting the overhead light brightly illuminating the table, but quickly surrendering to the gathering darkness at the table’s edge. Refracting glass and translucent jam turned into an ambiguous red and purple jewel of light and dark, like an uncut ruby waiting for the jeweler’s hand.

Earlier in the day, before the family meal, he was dispatched, like a small boy on an errand, to the old musty cellar to bring up the last bottles of pomegranate jam for the table. The cellar stairs strained under the weight of a grown man. He could tell his aging grandmother had not been in the disorderly cellar for a long time. The cold smell of earth and mildew grew stronger as he descended ten poorly lit stairs leading into the darkness. The stonewalls were damp and the wood stairs and shelves decayed. The old coal shuttle opening to the outside at ground level had leaked rain and snow for years, accelerating a quiet deterioration of wood and nail. Turning on a flashlight, he could see a dozen jars of various jams with single white labels marking the contents of each shelf. On each label, hand written in Armenian, was the name of the jam. Not speaking the language of his grandmother, he didn’t know which jar contained pomegranate jam, so he brought up three jars, each from different shelves, hoping one was pomegranate jam. Offering the jars to his mother, she held each to the bright kitchen light, nodding “yes”, the third jar was the one.

Pomegranate jam has a suppressed sweetness, with a cranberry overtone. It is a mature flavor, offering a dark pungent rush followed by a tart, vinegar after taste. More a nectar, pomegranate jam is not for bread; it is a condiment for beef or lamb. Derived from a thickened juice, pomegranate jam is made in the late fall or early winter. Reserved for ceremonial and family events, its flavor is reminiscent of more than meals, it is part of a tradition stretching back generations through Southern Europe, the Middle East and Persia. More than jam, it possesses the taste and smell of a different place and a now past generation.

With the clumsiness of a man alone in the kitchen, he left a trail of dribbled jam on the table. A woman would be more careful, not trickling the valuable nectar, but a man, less subtle, scoops deeply with a knife, leaving too much jam on the blade, trailing jam like sacred blood from the jar to the plate. Now, sitting alone in the kitchen, having finished his solitary meal, he could hear a train several miles away, making its way up the grade along the tracks by the river. The chilly night air was heavy with moisture and sounds traveled great distances like a lonely muted siren calling men to memory. A clock on the wall ticketed off the minutes with a soft click and the refrigerator cycled down and grew quiet.

“Getting something to eat,” the voice of his mother yawned from behind as she entered the room. She wore an old comfortable pink bathrobe and thin blue slippers.

“I woke you?” Abel turned to see her enter the room and sit down next to him at the edge of the light circling the table.

“I could smell the jam from the bedroom. Grama used to squeeze the pomegranates by hand to make the juice, then she simmered it with vinegar and sugar.” She lifted the open jar to her nose and inhaled deeply. “I could always smell this, anywhere in the house, when she opened a jar.”

The two figures were alone in the kitchen for a quiet moment, each looking at the open jar of pomegranate jam. “I will miss this place. I will miss pomegranate jam,” he said with the halting sadness of a small boy at his first confession.

“Yes, we’ll all miss the house,” she said looking around the kitchen. “But I’ll make pomegranate jam next year for the holidays.”

He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, and then back to his plate.

“And I’ll teach that Mormon girlfriend of yours to make it too.” She looked at her son with a tired, reassuring smile.

The mother and son sat quietly alone in the dark kitchen for a minute while the old clock ticked softly. In the distance, both could hear the straining train arrive at the top of the grade and begin its acceleration on the tracks out of town. – Jim Eaton

Lunch at the St. Thomas Hotel was presented like Mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral one block up the street. The maître d lorded over forty-two tables, dispensing the indulgence of forgiveness with butter and lemon sauce to the soul weary of means and social position. At lunch, the dark cherry wood tables were set with clean white linen tablecloths, arranged at an angle, exposing the dark wood corners. In the evening, fresh tablecloths were turned full-square, modestly covering the table’s exposed wood corners like the bare shoulders of an attractive woman.

If dinner was High Mass, lunch was Low Mass. Served with less formal plates and without the background accompaniment of a string quartet, lunch retained the evening’s elegance of food and service with the holy iconic table setting of St. Thomas knives, spoons, and forks. Seemingly over-sized in the hand, when held properly, the implements naturally balanced to slope down, addressing the plate like an artist’s brush to the palette. At the heel of each piece was the regal crest of the St. Thomas Hotel, molded with gold plate and seemingly chiseled in the heavy metal. The crest was a battle signet declaring a meal at St. Thomas was more a moral imperative and less mere cuisine. St. Thomas was a fine, old world hotel and restaurant, and its long-time wealthy patrons made it, for over one hundred years, the sacred ground of wedding receptions, funeral luncheons, and important meetings to discuss the business of living with means. It was hard to imagine who was more loyal to tradition – the aging maître d conducting the afternoon culinary Mass of Absolution, or the customers blessed with a central place in the social universe of rightful belonging.

Stacey Andrews sat by the large window, at the edge of the dining room. With her back facing the corner where the end of the window frame quickly met the wall, her regal gaze surveyed her dominion. If the maître d was the high priest of St. Thomas, Stacey was the marble statue of the holy virgin in the corner vestibule, one hand blessing the faithful and the other touching her sacred heart. But unlike a holy icon at St Mary’s Cathedral, Stacey’s heart was not filled with the passion of sacrifice. Not a bad woman by most standards, Stacey was a proud woman and her heart was filled with judgment as she anointed her family and friends with the holy oil of expectation.

Crossing the room quickly to the table by the window, Kendyll Andrews ported her purse and satchel with the rhythm and sway of expectant good news. She maneuvered between tables and behind waiters, never disturbing patrons or servers. Kendyll was tall, thin, and healthy in the way that tall, well-shaped women are slender and fit. With toned biceps from the gym, her chocolate brown hair was cut at the shoulder and swayed around her intelligent and markedly beautiful face, forming a halo of grace, brushing her neck and shoulders like a camel hairbrush on canvas.

Like all women in her early 30’s, Kendyll was expert at the natural deception of beauty and style employed to confuse interested men and female competitors. All eyes focused as she crossed the floor with great long strides, twice tossing her hair, then removing her tortoise shell glasses while lowering her head with deference to kiss her mother quickly on the cheek. With that kiss, curiosity was satisfied and the room’s envious guests angled their silverware down again, like choreographed weather vanes pointing the direction of the changing wind, swiveling their knives from their upward pause to the declination of redressing the holy trinity of capers, sauce, and fresh ground pepper. The room returned to lunch, but with the shifting wind at their backs, mother and daughter sensed the gathering storm. Flanked by sheer white curtains and heavy royal red drapes, the two women sat quietly for a moment while a waiter made his way briskly across the room.

Kendyll learned well from her mother how to stage manage the female theater of attraction. She understood her beauty was certain, and temporary. Already haunted by the encroaching whispers of age around her brown eyes, she was now 32, and in a new relationship that promised refuge from the winds of time blowing landward from off shore. But her family relationships were strained. Her mother was dissatisfied with her progress. After college and graduate school, she was single, living two thousand miles away, and out of her mother’s control. Kendyll had called her mother from Los Angeles requesting an audience, telling her she would arrange “a half day in San Francisco, on her way home to Chicago.” Phrasing her visit in such rushed and casual tones was a statement of independence more than reunion. Stacey Andrews, the matriarch and holy mother virgin of the vestibule, was not pleased with her daughter’s pretended authority – although she graciously accepted her daughter’s request of an audience.

The waiter approached the two ensconced women with halting respect, menus in hand, first directing his attention to the older woman – whom he understood well. Standing strategically with the sun at his back, pouring light directly through the white curtain sheers behind him, he began to offer menus when Stacey, her eyes closed to avoid the bright sun light, ordered abruptly.

“Fillet of sole with butter and lemon,” then looking at Kendyll with the blank expression of expectancy, “and my daughter will have?”

“Samuel, how are you? It is so good to see you again.” Kendyll addressed the waiter she had known for many years with the friendly respect more appropriate for an elderly uncle at family event.

“Very good, Mrs., ah, Kendyll,” he paused for uncomfortable moment.

“It’s Andrews now. And I’m glad you are well.” Kendyll understood the confusion about her last name and accepted her part in clarifying the situation for others. “I’d like a spinach salad with a small amount of white meat chicken, and vinaigrette on the side.”

Samuel nodded with the dutiful resolve of a man experienced in serving difficult people. He was a professional in his own right – an indispensible part of the liturgy at St. Thomas.

Staking out conversational territory is a fine art. While argumentative positioning is a male war tactic, for women, it is a way of life. In the Andrews family, conversation meant one had information of importance, but releasing the desired news only to reward the listener’s patience. Stacey held her tongue through the meal until, on cue, Kendyll offered up the anticipated information. She had met a man in Chicago, the relationship was serious, and she had expectations of “a more permanent arrangement.” Kendyll explained he had inherited the family’s commercial plumbing distribution business, he was three years younger than Kendyll, and came from an Armenian family.

“And he served his mission, where?” Stacey interjected with a curious tone.

“He didn’t serve a mission, mother. He isn’t LDS. His family is Catholic.” Kendyll sat up in her chair, bracing for the storm clouds to blow the weather vane off the roof.

“Ladies, excuse me,” the waiter awkwardly interrupted the conversation. “I have the dessert cart. I’d like to recommend the berry pie,” Samuel showed the plate first to Stacey and then Kendyll. “It came out of the oven just 15 minutes ago and it is still warm.”

Stacey nodded no. Kendyll leaned into the plate and inhaled deeply, “Oh, I could smell that from across the room. It looks wonderful, and messy.” Then sitting back in chair with a sense of disappointment, “But I can’t eat that. It must be a thousand calories. Thank you, Samuel, but not today.”

As the waiter pushed the cart away, Stacey returned immediately to the subject. “He’s Catholic and American – what does that mean?

“Armenian, mother, not American, but I mean, yes, he is American too,” Kendyll was beginning to stammer with the speech behaviors of a thirteen year old uncertain of her footing.

Stacy was already incensed. She and her daughter had already engaged the mode of conflict that defined their lives for thirty years. Kendyll braced for the question that was about to blow in like a gale from the sea, through the window at their backs, and wash over the lunch table like a tsunami.

Stacey pursed her lips, took a breath, and fixed Kendyll with her squinting green eyes. “He’s been married before?”

“No, he’s 29 and he’s never been married,” Kendyll answered while rearranging the folded napkin on her lap.

“And does he know you’ve already been married twice?” Stacey placed the dagger squarely on target and Kendyll deflated with defeat.

Kendyll was ready for the question, but no less undone when it came. First looking at the ceiling, then around the room, she saw Samuel waiting by the swinging kitchen door. Raising her hand to get his attention, he started across the room. Not waiting for him to make it all the way to the table, Kendyll raised her voice, “Samuel, I will have the berry pie. Could you bring a piece right away please.”

Reaching into her purse, Kendyll retrieved her glasses, refolded the napkin on her lap, and looked up at her mother, the holy marble virgin of St. Thomas, casting judgment from across the table. “Would you like some berry pie, Mother? It’s warm and looks really messy.” – Jim Eaton

Still Life Animating Memoryby James EatonInterpreting art is dangerous business. So many personalities bruise so easily – fresh fruit, still life, and human ego have so much in common. Still, reviewing Southern California still life artist, Robin Anderson, is great fun and a risk worth taking. Knowing and reviewing gifted people is more amusing than possessing talent itself.

Accommodating change is the most difficult process humans endure; in our small, inner world, memory fades behind a veil of distorted vision. Ultimately, memory becomes happier, and sometimes more sad, than the actual moment. But the demands of time are dominant and memory will endure in its imperfect, partially hidden world, peeking out from behind the semi-translucent veil of moments past. Robin Anderson parts the veil to the unconscious and allows us a glimpse.

Artists have a sacred duty to bring veiled memories to light. The talented artist is the midwife that delivers us to the understanding we normally choose to ignore, but in wisdom, we finally embrace. A talented artist never performs this sacred task directly; the artist is grounded by indirect inference. The observer too, like the artist, must struggle for meaning or the baby will never be delivered. The artist’s technique is not the source of initial engagement – although that inspection comes later. A painting’s success is revealed by engaging the sense of humanity and memory, both present, and standing just the other side of gauzy veil.

Robin Anderson’s new paintings qualify as the midwife of change – indirect, veiled, possessed of joy and sadness, and almost present, if not for the small distance separating memory from the now. Robin is painting something far more significant than still life. Robin is representing a deeper aesthetic. Her current paintings incorporate a sense of the moment, of insight, and tear at time to let consciousness breath.

I am always aware of my male sensibility when judging art. When a man judges another man’s art, the process of aesthetic appraisal is much easier. But when a man judges a woman’s art, the process is much more complex; as with all gender communication, this is more a problem of exposition than insight. While I recognize the feminine intelligence of Robin’s hand and eye, I also recognize that she is expressing ideas universal to all humankind, independent of mere gender, and offering a more successful aesthetic available to both male and female sensibilities. This is the talent and the accomplishment of a gifted artist.

The two paintings above, “Tangerines” and “Geraniums” are new arrivals to Robin’s family. She has clearly made a dramatic effort to separate from her former studied technique of still life on a grand scale. It is less that these paintings are less grand and more that they are just so much more accessible. They are human, common, imperfect in form and frame. They are wounded by life, yet filled with all the human divinity that inspires life on a grand scale.

“Tangerines” is reminiscent of Robin’s recent “Figs” in design and presentation, yet reflective of the place citrus has in the well-lit palette of culinary sense and oil on canvas. The tangerines reflect the light in the room. They enable a reflection on the polished table. They do not brood. They are not guilty. And they have nothing to confess. The vase in the background is a classic piece, partially framed, and the image lifts. The tangerines are both whole and partially crushed. This is an important representation. The dichotomy of what is apparent and what exists on the inside is an important vision. More, the fact that what exists on the interior is partially crushed and oozing life is what catapults the meaning of the images to a higher level of philosophical and psychological drama.

“Geraniums” is also a very good painting, but for different reasons than “Tangerines”. It is beautiful and immediate, common, but also noble. It is pretty in the feminine sense, but commonly accessible to all. With “Geraniums”, the eye will naturally follow the image without being condemned for staring. The pedals are not studied. The stems follow a natural course, weighed down by life itself. The simple fruit jar holding the flowers distorts the image behind the veil of glass and water, causing memory, leaf, and plant stem to dissolve into a recognizable chaos. The painting affects me as does a still life by Manet painted over a century ago. For Robin to arrive at the same place as Manet is only the highest of achievements and makes me want more, very soon.

Of no less importance is the background for each painting. Figure is only known in context. Robin’s context offers a germane background that does not demand attention unless you choose it. This matter immediately takes me to technique. The brush is intense and lifting, swirling the eye behind the formal image. I like this technique as much as I like the painting’s subject. A bad context will ensure a bad painting – Robin sidesteps this problem very nicely.

Robin’s art is changing. That may be a source of its immediacy and risk. This is a moment in an artist’s history that is recognizable, vulnerable, and disappears as the norm becomes the established and the creative opening closes. This is the energy of Robin’s work that evokes the sense of memory and humanity lost in time, yet present in the chaos of present life. – Jim Eaton